My Hands
by Kat Harrcolys
Summary: Inspired by a writing prompt from: g-fromthemoon, and The Leona Lewis song 'My Hands.' Season 8 spoilers. Scully after Mulder's "death." Oneshot


She wakes up in the morning and puts on her makeup. Her bed is empty once again and the dreams of Mulder were just that-dreams. The small bulge has become not-so-small and she braces it as she pushes up from her bed. Everyone knows now. Pregnant and Alone. But she's fine. She'll make it

She can remember when she thought she couldn't make it, when she was sure that she'd died too. The nightmares of him were frequent and she constantly woke to choking, believing there was dirt stuffed down her throat, that she was suffocating. She remembers when she came back from his funeral, and she told them she was 'fine' and they left her alone. She cried and cried until she couldn't cry any longer. And then when she couldn't cry any longer she cried some more. She slid down the wall of her bedroom and sobbed.

This was happening

She found him. And then she buried him.

But that was then and this is now. Things have changed. She can make it. And she will.

Of all the memories she has of Mulder, the thing she remembers most is his hands. His gargantuan hands that threw a basketball into a net with skill and fired a gun with precision (although she would argue that she was a better shot). The same hands held her small ones so perfectly and made her feel safe. At the funeral she held her own hands, pretending they were actually his.

They weren't.

She moves through her apartment, noticing the things she has of his scattered through her apartment. A shirt that's long lost his scent and smells more like the salt in her tears, his torn and battered copy of 'Metamorphosis.' A bag of sunflower seeds sit on her kitchen table where he left them _'just for the night, c'mon Scully, they aren't hurting anybody'_and just for a moment she can imagine him plucking one with his fingers and popping it into his mouth. But it's just her imagination. He can't do much from his coffin under 6 feet of dirt.

She thinks of her own hands. Her hands are skilled, capable of performing precise incisions and more simplistic tasks like putting on her makeup. She slides the blush across her cheeks and widens her eyes as she finishes her mascara. Her hair has grown but she doesn't want to cut it just yet. He'd told her once that he'd wanted to see her with long hair. She wondered if this counted. She brought the brush through the longer locks and examined her reflection for a moment. She looked presentable, and in control. She was in control, as long as she pretended that she didn't wake every morning thinking that Mulder's death had been a dream.

Suddenly his hands are pressed firmly on either side of her waist and she drops the brush. His lips are on the side of her neck and he's whispering into her ear, getting his shaving cream in her hair. Except he's not. She bends down carefully and picks up the dropped brush, sitting it on the sink, her other hand supporting the growing girth of their child. She supports their unborn son and knows that soon her hands will be adjusting to holding her son, their son.

Their son will never know what it's like. He'll never feel the embrace of his father or the warmth of his hands in the winter. He will never hear him say 'who's coffin did you crawl out of' when he presses his cold feet, that he got from his mother, on his calves when he climbs into their bed at night. He'll never have his eyes completely covered by hands that are like a blindfold or be picked up and tickled with such agile fingers that know just the right spots.

Agent Dogget is waiting for her and he needs her, so she needs to get going. He, along with Skinner coddle her more than she needs. Dogget offers her his hand when she's walking down the stairs to their office, the elevator broken for the day. His hand takes hers and she can imagine, just for a moment, that it belongs to Mulder. The image is fleeting, and she forces it from her. She is at work and she must be the Scully that they want her to be. She is at peace with Mulder's death. She has let go. She is fine.

Mulder's name slides off her tongue easily these days, as if she's reading another name from a file. She no longer slips into fits of sobbing, or feels her knees buckle when someone brings up Caddyshack, or when she sees someone drinking ice tea. She doesn't see him everywhere anymore. He's not in the Yankee stadium or the man wearing the New York Knicks Hat. He isn't the jogger or the man ordering disgusting pistachio ice cream in front of her in line. Her hands flip through files and in these moments she can completely forget that her hands ever did anything other than this, that were once held with such intensity that she never wanted him to let her go.

After a long day of work she gets home to her apartment. She slides out of her shoes and making her way into her bedroom and removing her clothes-she's exhausted from the long day and plans to go directly to bed. Before she lies in her bed, she goes to her dresser and pulls out an article of clothing. The peace she has established is crumbling once again.

Her hands shake as she brings his shirt to her body. Her fingers are wrung tight against the fabric as she breaths into it and breaths out; she breathes into it over and over again, as if her breath could will the man who once wore it back into existence.

She will wake in the morning and continue on._ Sleep for the baby. Eat for the baby. Live for the baby._ She will laugh when someone tells a joke, and walk with strong, firm steps. When she wakes, she will fold his shirt like she's putting away laundry and start again. She will reestablish her peace with Mulder's death and begin her day anew. She is fine without him.

Life moves on. She is fine, apart from the times she's not. He's gone, and she's moved on.

Except his hands won't let her go. They slide up her back and clasp hers over her growing stomach. They are warm and won't let her down. They are soft and scared and Mulder's. She closes her eyes and hums as his large hand rubs her belly. She can faintly hear his voice whispering in her ear as he caresses her, the way only he can. He's lulling her to sleep and she's happy, his hand holding hers.

His hands won't let her go. And she doesn't want them to.


End file.
